


Drifting on Music

by starluff



Series: JWP 2015 [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Daydreaming, Gen, I have a serious thing for music, Inspired by Music, Music, what even is this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4296891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starluff/pseuds/starluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old memory...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drifting on Music

**Author's Note:**

> For prompt #8: The Ballad of Reading Gaol
> 
> I couldn’t think of anything to write for the poem, so I opened up iTunes, put it on random, and pressed play. I got Pablo de Sarasate - Hommage à Rossini,Op.2. This is the result. Where was this idea when the music was the prompt?! (And what it is even? Like what?)

A violin and a piano play in my mind. It is a tune that was played on a certain occasion that I would be loathe to forget. It is a cherished memory that I only return to when I truly need to, as if not to weaken its affect or tarnish the memory in any way. I have stored this particular memory in my little brain attic, carefully tucked away where I can reach it whenever I need it. The violin skips and frolics glibly as the piano is plucked in the background. I can feel the smooth wood of the violin in my hands, under my chin; my arm still remembers how it pushed and pulled the bow against the strings. I can also remember how the piano played next to the violin, how we danced around each other. The melody danced around that room as if there was no one else present, stepping around and with each other, spinning and leaping until I was almost breathless. The violin sang and the piano played, and it was beautiful. What was more beautiful was how I raised my eyes during the playing to meet the eyes of my own Boswell at the piano, and how he smirked back.

 

I drift away now on the memory of music, away from this foul-smelling cell. It is only a temporary residence, and I will be out to play once more soon enough.


End file.
